18 BBC Sherlock: Wit's End
by Wynsom
Summary: Post Season 4 one-shot: While legendary partners and enduring friends, John and Sherlock could go without direct communication for weeks at a time, each man knows he would be at the ready should the other make a call for help. When Sherlock is troubled by a series of indecipherable texts from John, he realizes time is of the essence and races to the rescue.
1. Chapter 1

**BBC Sherlock: Wit's End**

 **88**88**

 **15 April 2018**

Paganini's _Caprice No. 24_ for solo violin was interrupted by the text-message ping on Sherlock's phone. It caught Sherlock's ear during a musical rest and as much as Sherlock wanted to continue his Sunday-afternoon violin exercise, reveling in the technical wizardry for which this piece was famous, he could not tune out the teeth-gnashing dissonance. The piece's A-minor clashed with his mobile's A-flat tone. Standing at the south window overlooking Baker Street, he stubbornly fingered several more measures of vigorous phrasing, appreciating the vibration of the strings tuned in perfect fifths and governed by the laws of physics. The instrument with its twenty-five diminishing semitones per string was a scientific wonder and Sherlock had been in the process of systemizing his playing technique when the phone disturbed him. After those few measures, curiosity eroded concentration; Sherlock laid down his violin and checked his phone.

The text was from John, but the message itself was unintelligible, _"Chat guide rubbish or my way",_ but before Sherlock could puzzle out its meaning a second text arrived, _"Great but one is just",_ and then a third, a string of numbers, symbols, and brackets.

 _What was John on about?_

Frowning at what might have possessed John to choose these key phrases, Sherlock scanned the messages. Immediately he ruled out their anagram or skip-code possibilities, puzzling less over what scheme of encryption John had used and more why he was sending coded messages at all. Earlier that day, John had sent a reminder text—which Sherlock had ignored—about a social engagement of sorts, an invitation…which was the reason Sherlock had ignored it. But these texts were incomprehensible.

Concern gathered like storm clouds over London. Just when _had_ they spoken last?

In between cases, neither Sherlock nor John needed the kind of frequent socialization associated with fast friends. Sherlock considered banal chats utter nonsense and John seemed fine with breaks in the work, especially with three-year-old Rosie needing ever more attention. Often apart for extended periods—until a case worthy of their time came along—they had arrived at this mutual, unspoken understanding: that their unique friendship did not depend upon constant interaction. It had been forged through shared adversity and would survive both the time and distance that living their separate lives imposed.

So, Sherlock had to think back to when they had last talked… not quite three weeks ago?

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A.N. At the end of my last multi-chaptered fiction, _Death Wish,_ I announced that I was retiring from writing such long laborious casefics. This is still true. However, ignoring the characters' voices that continue to hold dialogue in my head has made going "cold turkey" and not writing anything at all more of a struggle than I had imagined. It seems that as long as I can still hear them talking—and time allows—there may be an occasional one-shot. So, thanks to sweltering temperatures that thwarted outdoor activities during my last week of summer vacation, this one-shot _Wits End_ resulted. I hope you feel I made good use of my time. ;-)


	2. Chapter 2

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 **Nearly three weeks earlier: 28 March 2018**

John rang, apparently in good spirits, about the breaking news. "They got him now! The ringleader of the 2015 Easter Weekend burglary! It's all over the news, the internet, the telly," John enthused. "The papers are mentioning the _Wig-Hair Trail_. Seems that the meticulous investigation by an 'unnamed consultant'—I assume that means you—gave the police information to locate the tenth member of the heist, the one unaccounted for. Another of your successes, then…?"

"One of mine, yes, but don't believe the hype," Sherlock sniffed dismissively, pulling back from his laptop keyboard and cradling the mobile next to his ear. "It's not as extraordinary as the media make it out to be."

"Surely a heist of £29 million is no ordinary thing! They're saying the Met made a surprise arrest in north London, not far from the Hatton Garden Safe Deposit Company. Any of that true?"

While John had been speaking, Sherlock had been analyzing his voice, listening attentively for any edge of disquiet or irritation that all was not as it seemed. However, John sounded as though he were grinning. Hearing this, Sherlock concluded that John's hearth-and-home imperatives were proceeding as normal and that it was merely curiosity about the news that had prompted John's call. "Yes. Scotland Yard believes that they have indeed apprehended 'Basil,' the mystery mastermind—as I have proven his complicity to even their low level of comprehension—and so made a formal arrest." Sherlock rose from his desk chair to wander about the sitting room. "His was a crucial role. He was the inside man, neutralizing the alarm, rewiring electronic security, and letting the gang in through a fire exit."

"I remember now…," John paused in recollection. "The CCTV footage of the heist identified the four elderly burglars, but they never got a clear shot of the one man. Yeah, right, it was because he was wearing a wig, a red wig was it, and a cap?"

"Yup!" Popping the p consonant, Sherlock flopped in his leather chair and slung his legs over one arm, surprised by John's keen interest, especially as the heist had taken place during a very difficult period in both their lives. However, listening to John's genuine inquisitiveness encouraged him to share aspects of the case. "Of course, in 'Basil's' run-down council flat the police found some but not all the jewelry, cash, gold, and platinum stolen from the vault three years ago. What they did find should make this an open-and-shut case."

"You mean the red wig?"

"Not the wig…."

Sherlock had never had occasion to tell John about his involvement in the Hatton Garden Heist investigation. In April of 2015, Lestrade had persuaded _The Flying Squad_ , the special Met crime command unit handling the case, to give Sherlock several of the few strands of red hair found at the fire exit. For the past three years, Sherlock had been conducting his ongoing researches—despite the events, catastrophes, and cases during that conflicted period—to determine the strands' composition. He had meticulously experimented on all types of hair samples—synthetic, animal, and human—and catalogued his findings. Once he had accrued sufficient information, he corroborated his data with _The Flying Squad's_ analysis of the other strands to ensure the accuracy of his own results. Upon verifying his facts, he had further matched the synthetic fibers and exact pigmentation to a wig manufacturer in China. Eventually, he located the lot numbers and destinations of shipments as well as the seventeen venues in London where such wigs could be bought. Footwork, patience, and persistence paid off three years later.

"No, John. Although they did not find the incriminating wig," Sherlock continued his answer after a scant pause, "the police did find in his flat, which by the way was barely two miles from Hatton Garden vault, the synthetic red-hair wig fibers caught in the weave of a cap, the very cap he had worn as a disguise."

"Amazing!"

"Of course you'd say so, but it was not my best work. It took three years to trace the evidence to Michael Seed, a 57-year old jeweler—should have been obvious from the start—but I was occupied …." The Watson's marriage, Magnussen's threat, Sherlock's sure-death exile, Moriarty's ersatz return, Rosie's birth, Mary's death and John's devastation, Culverton Smith's murder attempt, Eurus' madness, and other minor cases did not need to be enumerated to make his meaning plain.

John grunted in acknowledgement.

"Suffice it to say," Sherlock continued, "my leads regarding his wig purchase narrowed the search. Had 'Basil' bought a better-quality wig from an established wigmaker, perhaps evidence would not have been so abundantly affixed to his cap."

"Must have been a tedious investigation, though," John laughed. "I'm glad you're the genius with an infinite capacity for taking pains." Another smile—one of proud affection for his friend—was audible over the connection, "I could give you credit for your pains with a blog about it, yes?"

"No. My involvement isn't really that interesting to your reading public," Sherlock shook his head, "unless you want me to share the crucial scientific analysis that blew the case open and how the news reports have overlooked its relevancy and basically got things wrong?"

"That sounds more like an entry for your _Science of Deduction_ ," John chuckled.

"Quite right," Sherlock agreed.

There was a long pause, each waiting for the other to suggest ringing off, but then John _ahemed,_ "Look, Sherlock, I know it's not your thing, but—"

 _Oh,_ Sherlock groaned inwardly. He had learnt to dread whenever John prefaced anything with those words. _There was another purpose for this call, after all,_ he thought. _It wasn't just curiosity about the heist._

"—If you know it's not my thing," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, "why are you bothering?"

"Just giving you an option," John replied, overly-patient, already knowing how this would go.

"An option for what?"

Ignoring Sherlock's impatience, John began with a neutral lead-in, "Squash finals are being televised in the next few weeks and…."

From the ensuing silence, John easily pictured Sherlock's eye-roll of annoyance.

"…and I'm having a few friends in to watch the match …" John stopped. Even he could hear the idiocy in his attempt. Although he hadn't meant to sound half-hearted in his invitation, his awkwardness made him sound half-witted, instead, and underscored the answer he had expected.

When it came to the Watson's suburban lifestyle and John's mundane routine, Sherlock paid it as little mind as possible so long as it did not affect the scheduling of one of their cases and neither John nor Rosie required protection. Rather, it was their day-to-day that always sounded dreary— _tedious_ —as it was filled with domestic chores, day trips with Rosie, a nighttime bedtime story for the daughter and crap telly until the weary father stumbled off to bed.

"John," Sherlock snapped. "Do you think I'm in want of _com_ pany?" John could hear the curl of Sherlock's lip on the last word.

A strangled choke and stammer preceded John's reply, "No, of course not," he snorted at the absurdity. "No, I was just…curious if you…" A swallow interrupted his spluttering, "… wondered if you'd thought… yeah, uh huh," his voice squirmed with exasperation, "Never mind. It's not your thing, I get it." He blew out a sigh.

They both knew that Sherlock would rather be anywhere else, in hot pursuit of dangerous smugglers, following the scantiest clues to a major art forger, undermining an evil drug lord and his minions than spend a placid Sunday afternoon in April with several others—presumably men, even of his acquaintance—watching a sports match and sharing a pint or two or three or….

Although he had been unnecessarily pointed, Sherlock softened upon hearing John's obvious discomfort. At the same time he decided to address the undercurrent of John's ongoing concern. "Let me assure you, John, being alone while you scamper about your bourgeois existence presents no problem to me. In fact, I prefer my solitary ways. I've work to do, remember? And I've no need for stimulants now. There are enough challenges in this elevated terror-alert city to keep me occupied. What would drive me to the abyss would be _needing_ company and popping over for a pint."

"Right, yeah. Suppose so," John's easy tone, evident at the onset of his call, had vanished, but despite Sherlock's previous abrasiveness, John persisted in giving counsel disguised as an afterthought, "Well, you know, if needing 'stimulants' ever becomes an issue, you might consider that being addicted to sports is both legal and exhilarating."

"You know my methods," Sherlock leveled his annoyance. "Crime-solving is my game."

"Yeah. I know. But keep in mind, there are other games…And I don't mean _Cluedo_...which I imagine you'd be just as good at predicting their outcomes," John huffed, more teasing than disgruntled.

" _Boring!_ " Sherlock yawned his disinterest.

"Right, so, if you change your mind," John was like a dog on a bone, "there's the Men's Doubles Gold Medal Match," and gave Sherlock the Sunday date in April. "Match time is at four, and oh yes, Greg will be there; he's arriving with the others at two." He hesitated.

In the pause, Sherlock imagined "hearing" the wheels of thought spin in John's brain as he made a last-ditch effort.

"You know," John resumed, "I once wanted to play squash professionally. I could explain strategies ahead of time, that is, if you've deleted them…"

"Too busy, John," Sherlock declined flatly. "Besides, my match analysis would ruin the anticipation of what you deem are random outcomes." As much as he preferred John's company on investigations, Sherlock saw no reason— _ever_ —to fraternize over a sports ritual, and after making that perfectly clear one last time, they rang off.

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	3. Chapter 3

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 **Sunday afternoon, 15 April 2018 continued**

Sherlock glanced at the time: 16.07. Why would John be texting him during an "exhilarating" squash finals match? And where was the punctuation in his texts? John was usually a stickler for punctuation, a throwback to his more formal writing.

 _Unless there was a problem.._.

Was he texting for help? Why not text _Vatican Cameos_? That would have been clearer.

 _Unless he couldn't…_ Sherlock deduced the myriad possibilities why a perfectly competent adult would be texting nonsense, aside from being shitfaced, and reduced it to one—John's hands were inaccessible... Why? Immediately, Sherlock imagined John's wrists bound behind his back with his numbed fingers wrapped around his mobile. _Good man,_ he had kept it hidden from his captor _. S_ till, John was disadvantaged by touch-screen technology. With no feel for raised buttons nor a view of the keypad, he'd have to swipe along the QWERTY screen as the algorithm of autocorrect formed the words. Sherlock imagined John aimlessly pressing until his thumb found the send button.

Clutching the sides of his head, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to process all relevant threats—past and current—against him that might possibly endanger John, collaterally. Try as he might, none seemed germane, although there was one possible candidate: a drug-dealing petty thief with a penchant for stealing—among other things—girlie magazines from shops and private homes. Tim Whitney was on probation after two-year's rehabilitation and time-served in HMP High Down. During his arrest, Whitney was as high as a kite, but his threat was nothing Sherlock hadn't heard before. "Whot! They got nuffin' on me, y'bastard! When I get out, you watch out!"

 _All bark, no bite,_ Sherlock had thought at the time. Had he been wrong?

He went to his laptop and pulled up the last update from the Met. Tim Whitney last checked in two days ago with his probation officer in Surrey. _Clean as a whistle, a model citizen, holding down a responsible job_ the notes had indicated, and "eyes on" Tim Whitney had not detected anything suspicious. He did not really seem the "get-even" type; he was mere talk, but what if…?

The thought remained unfinished. Apprehension that they or he had overlooked the slightest detail—even though John had not accompanied him on that particular venture— focused Sherlock's attention. Had he put his friend in harm's way? As he considered his options for intervening in John's plight, another text pinged, _"Dunno we be it"_ , causing Sherlock to recall their phone conversation from several weeks ago, and mostly regret his snappish goodbye.

 _"Greg will be there…"_ John had said.

 _Lestrade!_ He would ring Lestrade… no! Not ring, _text_ …if they were hostages and Lestrade was in the same situation, a ringing phone would bring attention and do more harm than good. Sherlock knew the text notification on the DI's mobile was a very soft sound and less likely to be noticeable to any captor. And once Sherlock sent an incoming text, Greg could easily hit reply…or better yet, turn his phone on so Sherlock could listen in.

Sherlock texted, _"Ring me."_ Realizing and regretting as he pushed the send, that he was now gambling with the good Detective Inspector's safety, Sherlock bent forward in his armchair with clasped hands resting between his knees, a pose that resembled praying.

While Sherlock hoped for success, he had to wonder what idiot captor would let his hostages keep their mobiles? Many a time he derided the intelligence level of the criminal element. " _They have the IQ of toddlers,"_ he had complained to John more than once.

Unfortunately, that described Tim Whitney, not the brightest bulb, certainly. Had it not been Mrs. Hudson's cousin who had had her jewelry stolen by the drug-addled Whitney, Sherlock would not have bothered with the case. His swift intervention had enabled the police to catch Whitney in the act of pawning the goods.

Precious seconds passed while Sherlock awaited a reply, then precious minutes, two precisely, before there was a responding text ping. Scooping up his phone Sherlock read the message, _"Hog has to be back"_ ratcheting Sherlock's apprehension into fear for his friends' well-being.

Thinking hard about John's invitation those weeks before, Sherlock had never bothered about the "guest list" as he was certain no one among John's friends would be anywhere close to intriguing. Could this miscreant have been a part of John's new social group? It would not be hard for Tim Whitney to locate Dr. John Watson at the surgery and befriend the likeable doctor as John was a pushover, at times, for companionship. Had Sherlock attended this ludicrous sports-ritual event of John's, he should have recognized and deterred Whitney immediately. Arrogance, disdain, distaste for sports along with their inebriated fans, and a general impatience with the entire world of idiots fueled this aspect of Sherlock's antisocial tendencies and had made it laughably easy for him to reject John's offer.

What might have happened at John's social event was uncertain, but certainly time was of the essence. How long had his friends been immobilized? Was it worth delaying action and risking his friends' safety because his suspicions were based upon insufficient evidence?

No, but verification to some degree was vital. That his friends might be in danger was not the only problem, how to verify his suspicions was another. Verification in person wasn't the most expedient. It would take him forty minutes on an ordinary April Sunday afternoon to leave London and get to the Watson's suburban home by taxi or public transport or even by borrowing Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin.

Verification by remote resources would have been best, but there were neither watchful drones nor surveillance equipment he could tap into near or within the Watson's abode. After John had become widowed, Sherlock had broached the topic as a security measure. Not unsurprising, John would have none of it, and Sherlock had respected, somewhat begrudgingly, his friend's wishes. He regretted not having persuaded John to install a listening device for this very purpose.

Time was indeed of the essence. As much as Sherlock preferred the dispassionate approach to think things through, he recognized that there was scarce time for irrefutable verification. And verification _in situ_ was paramount. Short of teleporting to the Watson's flat, Sherlock couldn't possibly be on the scene quickly enough to obtain the information he needed. It was plain. To protect John, Sherlock must ask for help.

He had learnt the hard way that his "protection" was useless if he did not muster all his reasoning skills to maximize in a timely fashion the best possible resources, even if those resources excluded him from the operation. And there was only one person to whom he could turn who could marshal personnel and respond to the scene with more immediacy—Mycroft—and it also meant trusting that those in Mycroft's employ could do the job better than he could do alone. At wit's end and without another moment of hesitation, Sherlock called his brother.

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Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin purred as Sherlock motored toward the London suburbs, hoping his speeding would not attract bothersome attention from the Road Police. His fingers drummed the drive wheel when they weren't clenched with foreboding. Tuned in to the official communiqué via earphones and still thirty minutes from his destination, he divided his attention between the demands of the road and the discussion of the rescue-operation plans as Mycroft's team assembled. Ordered to approach the premises with extreme caution—there was a toddler among the hostages—the team was currently in position outside the Watson's home waiting for word to move. Until internal surveillance determined the situation—how many captors were involved and the whereabouts of the hostages inside the Watson's flat—they were working with unknowns.

Sherlock had suggested two actions: first that Mycroft request local authorities in Surrey to be _discreet_ with checking the whereabouts of Tim Whitney and second, that Mycroft seek official authorization to access the "hot mic" tool for listening in on John's and Greg's phones. Everyone was standing down until the audio surveillance provided enough crucial intelligence to move forward.

Sherlock understood the protocol and as he adroitly maneuvered the British sports car through traffic and onto the motorways, he repressed any thoughts about being too late.

"Still locating Whitney," Mycroft's level voice was soothing as it was devoid of emotion, "and awaiting confirmation that he went to Bury Hill Fisheries in Dorking—this according to his landlord. We've also got audio now of the Watson's flat, Sherlock. Can you hear it?"

Sherlock wiggled the earbud tighter into his ear canal to ensure he would miss nothing. "Not yet…"

"You should be hearing what we're hearing any moment."

The first crackle of sound in Sherlock's earpiece was sharp and jarring. He flinched from the audio assault but seconds later, the volume and clarity were perfect.

He heard howling male voices, rising and falling sometimes in anguish, sometimes in fury and then sometimes in relieved laughter. These jumbled shouts were farthest from the phones and were mostly indistinguishable, but Sherlock strained and thought he recognized John's and Greg's voices in the mix. In the foreground there was constant heavy breathing, along with gurgling, but the distinct voice made Sherlock freeze. Rosie giggled…then she cooed…then she mumbled an entire nursery rhyme in a sing-song cadence that indicated she was perfectly fine and absorbed in entertaining herself. This was followed by the musical tones of a mobile's buttons being pressed and the three-year-old's voice saying, "Hewo? Hewo? A'body there?" In the background another explosive chorus of men's voices erupted in consternation.

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice interrupted in his earpiece. "Can you make this out? Do you understand what's going on? Shall we move in? "

That Mycroft was serious made Sherlock cringe even more. He clenched the drive wheel until his fists were white, saying, "Continue to stand down. I have a theory…" _you may not like,_ he finished silently _._

More soft mutterings in Rosie's lilting voice preceded a satisfied exhalation. An instant later, Sherlock's phone pinged with a received text message. The Aston Martin, synchronized to Sherlock's phone, offered to read the message aloud. Dreading it, Sherlock hit play, " _Message from John_ ," the sultry car voice said. _"Like not is it"_ and Sherlock groaned under his breath, "Swipe keypads and autocorrect be damned!" He smacked the drive wheel as Rosie giggled playfully in his ear.

"What, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded sharply also in his ear.

"Hold on," Sherlock advised Mycroft. "Just to be sure, have your men stay close but stand down. I'm twenty minutes out, and while I believe I know the situation, I'd rather listen to a bit more audio to confirm my suspicions."

Two more minutes of listening confirmed the scenario in Sherlock's mind. The marginally **-** attended three-year-old had got her hands on the smartphones, at least John's and Greg's. Her little fingers had been swiping over the text keypad and composing nonsensical messages, spelled into nominally intelligent phrases by autocorrect. The lack of punctuation should have been a clue! Autocorrect did not punctuate! Whomever else Rosie might have been texting or ringing would be evident when Sherlock substituted her new toys with less interactive ones. It seemed obvious **,** by the yowls of agony and ecstasy **,** that the exciting finals match had completely diverted the attention of the big boys in the room. Right under their noses, one clever little girl had used the power of technology to wreak embarrassing havoc.

"Okay, Mycroft," Sherlock swallowed his pride, "The situation is clear. There is no intruder. Whitney's not involved. You may call off your men with my apologies for a false alarm."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's intonation was unmistakably officious. "Have just received confirmation: Tim Whitney's been located by the local authorities. Lucky man. Fish were biting. He caught his dinner. Alibi checks out." Another icy remark followed, "Fear you've been a bit rash, brother mine."

"When time is of the essence, rash is the risk…," Sherlock conceded ruefully. By the time he had finished explaining the situation to his brother—who self-righteously felt constrained to share the pound-value cost of such a rescue operation to the British government—Sherlock had parked in front of the house, his disposition decidedly cross. "' _Caring is not an advantage_ , _indeed_ ,'" he muttered during the short walk to the Watson's flat. He stopped at the wrought-iron gate and texted Molly—as Mrs. Hudson didn't text, " _Ring Mrs H_. _Tell her John and Rosie are fine. Car is safe. Let her explain everything to you_ **.** " Sherlock descended the front steps and banged on the door with more force than was necessary…or polite.

John opened the door and did a double-take upon seeing his friend, "Ssssher—?" Clearly oblivious to Sherlock's brow furrowed in vexation, John welcomed Sherlock with a broad grin of surprise."Hah! Sherlock!"

"Hey, Sherrr-lock," Greg Lestrade hailed—more than a bit pissed—from the living room where five armchair athletes, mental about the outcome of the finals match, argued in loud voices.

"Well, this is a shock," John swiveled his head toward his guests and back to the peeved man standing at the threshold. "You decided to come after all! Nice."

"Good match, John?" Sherlock muttered sourly.

"Exciting!" John answered, his grin beginning to fade as he became aware of Sherlock's stern countenance, though mistaking its significance. "Too bad, you just missed it. We came in second, though!" Again he offered Sherlock an innocent smile and beckoned. "Come in, come in."

The whiff of beer and cheese and crisps and onions tickled Sherlock's nostrils once inside the door. And then Rosie's delighted shriek pierced the noisy room.

"Unky Ssshurkky!" As fast as her little legs could take her, she came running. In each hand she held a smartphone, gooey with cheese, saliva, and smeared with fingerprints. "Ssshurkky," she exclaimed affectionately and offered them in her uplifted hands to Sherlock as a gift.

"What's this, Rosie?" John bent over to retrieve his and Greg's phones making a disgusted face at their condition. "Have you been playing with these?" The child giggled and toddled off to find an actual toy to entertain her this time.

"Yes, she has," Sherlock snapped. "That's _why_ I'm here! Along with a special-force team to help release the hostages…"

"Huh? Oh _MY_ God!" John's eyes widened in understanding, flicked over to his daughter, and then narrowed as he knitted his brows. "You're kidding, right?"

"You know, John, I don't 'kid,'" he said with decided scorn on the last word.

"There's my phone!" Greg swayed, clamping a hand on John's shoulder and giving Sherlock a lopsided grin. "Gobsmacked to see you here. Really, Sherlock, thought this wasn't your scene. John throws a good party, though," he grinned foolishly.

"Hammered are we, Lestrade?" Sherlock remarked, looking down his nose while one disapproving eyebrow rose.

"No worries. Off tomorrow," Greg assured him with a dismissive wave and re-pocketed his phone, not even noticing it needed to be thoroughly cleaned—probably with steam and antibacterials. He hiccoughed and grinned, "Don't _have_ to be sharp-witted in the morning…"

"How is that different from most days?" Sherlock shot back, although Lestrade had already moved out of earshot.

"Oh, leave him be, Sherlock," John chided in a whisper, glancing at the DI and Rosie. The former was grousing with the guys about the match; the latter was jamming a stuffed toy into a colorful plastic lorry with big red wheels. "Greg's been having a rough few weeks."

"Hmmm," Sherlock followed the DI with discerning eyes. "The brunette forensic officer. It's been on and off. Years ago I told him she wasn't the one. Surprised it lasted this long. He finally found out about the kids in Rio, I assume?" Sherlock inhaled sharply and turned back to John, "Might I add, the last hour was no picnic for me, either."

John looked up at his friend's glower with a scant smile and waited. Sherlock's anger abated and the first glimmer of amusement relaxed his mouth with the promise of a smile.

"Sorry, mate," John shrugged and flicked an abashed grin. "Thought I could manage… Rosie had food and toys and I made sure she stayed close by and out of danger…"

"…but apparently not out of mischief. Your daughter," Sherlock mocked ominously, "is going to be trouble, John." Sherlock gestured toward the trays of leftover food and the assorted alcohol, "Whatever you call this party _thing_ , retaining a childminder for the occasion would have been prudent."

"Are you volunteering?"

At Sherlock's snort, John snickered, "Okay! Lesson learnt!"

Appealing for pardon with chagrined, raised eyebrows, John shrugged in acceptance, "I swear **,** I won't let this happen again." Then he checked to make sure there was no one standing behind Sherlock, before adding with an impish grin, "If Mycroft's with you, tell him to come in. We've got enough crisps and drinks for another go round."

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THE END


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